See, where mid-way up the sky

The full-horn'd moon hath mounted high,
I deem her like some beauteous thing,
Some unseen sprite with airy wing,
O'er desert regions wandering;

Whose lightsome foot hath chanc'd to press
On earth extremest wilderness,

A barren, bleak, and bare abode
Where mortal elf hath never trode ;
So royally she seems to ride
In spotless purity and pride
With not a page to grace her side,
Whilst her dragon yoke is driv'n
O'er the darken'd plain of heav'n.

And thus she lightly moves along
Uncircled by the starry throng,
And scarcely seems the sky to press
In solitary loveliness;

Yet marks she thence, full well I ween,
On this dark sphere each passing scene,
And might, but not to mortal, tell
What fortune strange hath e'er befell,
Since first her orb and this fair earth
Were call'd from nothing into birth;
So has she scann'd with curious eye
The world's eventful history,
Seen empires rise and fall again
As herself might wax and wane;

The fell destroyer she has seen
While his youth was fresh and green,
Time-and mark'd him as he flew

While still his strength and stature grew;
Tho' hoary head and channell❜d cheek
May now more distant age bespeak:
Watch'd his blasting breath to mar
Born Nature's form so fresh and fair,
With havoc sweeping o'er the plain
On the wasting hurricane,

Or on the fell Sirocco ride

O'er summer's wealth and autumn's pride;

And years while she is aye the same,
Sink beneath the boundless stream.
And now again the midnight bell
Doth the year's departure tell,
Again December's blast makes moan
For another year that's gone,
Winter, grim tyrant, slumbering laid
Beneath some Northern cavern's shade,
Forgets to bring his stormy train
To claim their ancient rule again,
Nor yet with iron hand hath cast
His snowy mantle o'er the waste,
Nor yet the bitter-biting frost
Hath bound the stream with icy crust,
Or with a chill congealing breath
Hath woven well his nightly wreath,
That on the snowy polish'd glass
May e'en the painter's toil surpass :
For there pourtray'd to Fancy's eye
Her native scenes of purest dye
Plains and rivers rolling wide
And the mountain's Alpine pride,
And deep cascade and rocky rent
With temple-tow'r and battlement,
And here fantastically spread
The sky's grey curtain overhead,
So passing wonderful to see
Is this quaint embroidery,

So wildly sketch'd-so purely chaste
The feather'd pencil o'er them past,

That you would deem some sportive sprite

Had labour'd there the live long night,
And gave before your eye to stand

The scenery of fairy land.

So mingled the disorder'd mass

Painted on the snowy glass,

You dream that morning's dawny hue
And the cock that shrilly crew,

Bade the busy elf begone

Ere well his frolic task was done.

Reflecting back the cold moon-beam,
But wintry blasts and driving rain
Patter on the unfrozen pane,

And watchman-like, the wild wind's roar
Lifts my latch, and tries my door.
Such loud appeal hath startled me
From my broken reverie :

I deemed not, I, just now to hear
Th' unwelcome visitor so near,

Though, while the Muse my thoughts beguil'd
He sung and whistled o'er the wild.
For whilst at times his gusty breeze
Made music through the forest trees,
The varying cadence I could bear
By distance mellow'd to mine ear;
But now with breath so rough and rude,
Unbidden guest, he dares intrude
Upon my silent solitude,

And burst the talismanic band

That, cent'red in fair fancy's hand
So soundly did my senses steep,
In fairy slumbers soft yet deep;
While hov'ring round me quickly came
The people of a poet's dream.

Z.

EDITOR'S NOTE BOOK.

If "Lot" will tell a better story, equally well, it shall be with pleasure inserted.

I am sorry that "the Borderer's" contribution, though it is highly creditable to his religious feeling, is inadmissable.

"St. Clair" is evidently capable of producing something worth reading. I regret, that on this occasion, he has not altogether succeeded.

Received four attacks on Mr. Jaques, the only one with the least wit, or good nature, is inserted.

"Cursory Remarks on Printing" are well written, and would do very well for the Mechanics' Magazine, but would not be read in this.

"Don" will already perfectly understand why his "Narcissus"—which, in all regards, but that alluded to, is amongst the best verses that have been received-cannot be admitted.

"Hubert Trelawny,"-I wish to Apollo he would change his name, cannot see his contribution in print till next month. His preamble will be omitted as being entirely unconnected with his story; if indeed his attack on the Motley Cap could succeed in pulling it off, it would be probably only to be thrown in his own face.

"Estafina" must try again.

I recommend "Winifred" to adhere in future to her knitting needle. She will make a much better Arachne than a Sappho.

I feel in nothing more delicacy than in adverting to many juvenile contributions, which, though they do much credit to authors apparently so young, are yet too puerile for insertion here. I can only wish them to continue their attempts, however discouraging their non-insertion may be, and assure them that it affords me the greatest pleasure to peruse their manuscripts, and to speculate on what they may at some time atchieve.

Nothing is more earnestly wished for than a continuation of "J's"-"Living Poets."

B. Y.

LEEDS: PRINTED BY ROBINSON AND HERNAMAN.